Shattered Daydreams and Ironic Reunions
by MJ McCoy
Summary: Somewhere in the back of his mind, Puck knew he wanted to see his daughter again. Just not this way. AU after season one finale.


It was all getting to be too much.

For the nine months before his daughter had been born he'd been showing Quinn he would make a good father, and somewhere along the line he fell in love with the idea himself.

And for the short time that Quinn considered keeping their daughter, he found himself looking forward to being a father, and he told himself that he'd be a better father than his own had been.

But Quinn changed her mind— again— and she gave their daughter away. Puck had thought she'd at least talk to him— they went through this together, after all— but she'd staunchly avoided him at every turn.

He just needed to get away.

He "borrowed" his mother's car— he still didn't have one of his own; money was tight in the Puckerman household— and set off, aimlessly driving around town. He was barely paying attention when all of a sudden there was a scream and he refocused his attention on the road just in time to see a carriage rolling suddenly before his car.

He slammed on the brakes, but alas, too late. He felt the slight bump as the car hit the carriage and could only watch helplessly as it fell beneath the hood.

He leapt out and ran to the front of the car, and his stomach twisted horribly when he saw the tiny child lying half-in, half-out of the carriage, bright crimson blood spreading slowly across the rough black asphalt.

Shoes clicked frantically on the pavement, and he looked up to see the child's mother approaching at a run, panic in her eyes, and a heavy, sick feeling coiled itself in his gut as he recognized her as Shelby Corcoran, the former coach of Vocal Adrenaline.

He leaned to the side of the road and retched.

When he looked back up, Shelby still stood frozen, hand pressed to mouth, tears escaping terror-filled eyes. He gently reached forward and scooped the baby girl into his arms.

"She needs to get to the hospital," he said roughly, and Shelby was startled out of her trance, though she still stood as if she knew not what to do.

"Call 911!" he ordered urgently, and she burst into action, whipping out a phone and barking adrenaline-fueled directions into it, reminiscent of a military officer.

Puck couldn't take his eyes off the limp body he cradled in his arms. He thought perhaps the world, the universe, was conspiring against him; yes, he wanted to someday meet his daughter again, but not _this way._ Everything was all _wrong,_ like a puzzle that had been meddled with and its pieces no longer fit together harmoniously.

He pushed a piece of her fine, duck-fluff hair out of her closed eyes, and winced as he noticed the streaks of blood clinging to his fingers.

Puck's whole world hinged on her at that moment, and with every closely monitored rise and fall of her chest and every weak flutter of her pulse his heart swelled with love and dread. He saw what he'd done to her, and when her chest paused in its motions and her pulse stuttered, self-hate bloomed in his chest and he doubted he could live with himself if she didn't recover.

His perception of time was skewed, and it seemed hours before the ambulance arrived, lights flashing, siren wailing. Shelby still seemed to be in shock, and didn't notice (or at least didn't object) when he climbed into the ambulance behind her.

All his life before this moment he had greatly underestimated the power of an emergency vehicle with its screaming sirens and practically seizure-inducing lights: they faced almost no opposition in their mad dash to the hospital.

Puck stared helplessly as the EMTs whisked his daughter away, and all he could do was sit with Shelby Corcoran in the waiting room.

As he sat down, she looked up at him.

"Why are you still here?" she asked accusingly.

"I need to see if Bethie's okay," he whispered, his voice cracking on his daughter's name.

"How do you know—" Shelby broke off in the middle of her sentence and gasped in realization, a short, sharp punctuation. "You're—"

She couldn't finish her thought, and their eyes met and locked, hers full of pain and dread and tinged with bitter sympathy, and his backlit by flames of tortured self-loathing and anguish and so many terrible emotions they mixed together and sank like a cold, hard rock in his stomach.

They sat in silence then, and he thought perhaps eons had passed and he'd missed the chance to bid each farewell before they waltzed on by. The doctor reemerged, and his heart was shot through with icy shards of hope and fear.

"Family of Beth Corcoran?"

Puck and Shelby stood simultaneously, each lost in their own terrible fantasies of the devastating news they feared with every fiber of their beings.

"She's stabilized," the doctor informed them, and Puck rubbed his face with his hand, trying to cover up his watering eyes. They could be mistaken for tears, and he didn't want that. Besides, he _never_ cried.

"Things were touch-and-go for awhile," the doctor continued, "but she's looking better and if she regains consciousness in the next twenty-four hours, her chances of making a full recovery skyrocket."

"And if not?" Puck asked, his voice a hoarse, raspy whisper.

"We can't say for sure," the doctor said gravely.

Puck bit his lip. She _needed_ to wake up.

"You can go in and see her now," the doctor offered.

Puck let Shelby go in first, alone, giving her as much time as necessary with her daughter.

When she emerged, she nodded almost imperceptibly, granting him permission to walk in.

He hesitated at the door, unable to tear his eyes away from the heartbreaking sight of Beth lying in her tiny hospital bed, the wires she was connected to dwarfing her.

He crossed the room in a few long, swift strides, and he gently held her little hand, so small in comparison to his own.

Puck cleared his throat, at a loss for words. Just looking at her— it tore at his soul. And to know that it was his fault? Even worse.

"Bethie," he whispered eventually, "if you're anything like your parents, you're a fighter."

He paused then, as the need to wipe his eyes arose. The feeling of hot, wet tears prickling his eyes was strange to him; he could count on one hand the number of times he'd cried before.

Once was when his father left.

Once was when Beth was born.

And once was now.

"I'll give you anything," he promised. "Toys, clothes, sweets; I'll stay in your life or I'll keep out of it, whatever you want. Just— please wake up. I love you."

He'd never said those three words to anyone before.

* * *

><p><strong>I do not own Glee.<strong>

**This was written for a prompt on the angst meme. Feedback is greatly appreciated and I thank you for your time.**

**-MJ**


End file.
